Merry X rated mas
by Lampito
Summary: The fat guy in the red suit might just've landed his sleigh pulled by reindeer next to the Impala, but that doesn't mean Sam's prepared to believe he's who he claims to be. And Dean's drinking eggnog with far more nog than egg, so he's not much help.


Just when I think the plot bunnies have left me alone to get some work, some crochet, and some gardening done, this little bastard jumped out of a mug of tea, of all things. It shook itself dry, and demanded to be heard. It wouldn't listen to my protests that it was an _unseasonal_ bunny - too late for Christmas in July, too early for Christmas proper. It just didn't care. You know what the little mongrels can be like.

**DISCLAIMER: **They're not mine. Just as well, really, I have enough pets as it is.

**TITLE: **Merry X-rated-mas

**SUMMARY:** Okay, yeah, the fat guy in the red pyjamas might just have landed his sleigh pulled by reindeer next to the Impala, but that doesn't mean Sam's prepared to believe he's who he claims to be. For a start, the laws of physics mean he can't exist. And Dean's eggnog has far more nog than egg, so he's not much help.

**RATING:** T. For - ahem - themes.

**BLAME:** Lies entirely, as usual, with the Denizens, Visitors, Lurkers, and Casual Droppers-In of the Jimiverse. I must also lay a certain amount of the blame at the feet of a workmate who insists that she wants Sam Winchester for Christmas. When told she can't have him, she said she'd have Dean instead. I left the tearoom before she could go into details about what she wanted either of them _for_.

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><p>"Dean, do you think you might've had enough?" suggested Sam. His brother's broad, sunny grin suggested that he didn't agree.<p>

"It's eggnog, Sammy!" he chirped, swigging from the large glass again, "It's Christmas, and I'm drinking eggnog. It's all right to drink eggnog at Christmas. It's practically compulsory to drink eggnog at Christmas!" He frowned slightly. "Sam, why are you not drinking eggnog?"

"Firstly, because it's not quite Christmas yet," answered Sam, "And secondly, what you are drinking is not eggnog."

"Yes it is!" pouted Dean.

"No, it isn't," countered Sam.

"Yes it is!"

"No, it isn't."

"Is!"

"It isn't."

"It totally is!"

"Dean, it's brandy; you waved an egg over the bottle, and sprinkled a pinch of nutmeg into it," observed Sam.

"It's my own special recipe," Dean insisted, "Everybody has their own special eggnog recipe. Mine happens to have less egg, and more... nog."

Sam was about to inform his brother that a) there was no such thing as nog in modern English, and b) he was totally full of shit, when there was a knock at the door.

Silently, both brothers drew their guns, as Dean put down his bottle and shouldered Sam out of the way with a big-brotherly scowl _– I will open the door to something that might potentially want to kill us, Sam, you stay out of the way _– and cracked the door.

On the doorstep of their room stood a rotund, smiling figure. It was an old man, with a long white beard and round red cheeks, wearing a bright red outfit. "Good evening, Dean Winchester," the old man said, in a warm, rumbling voice redolent of rum, mince pies and candy canes, "Is Sam Winchester in?"

"Er," replied Dean, his eye drawn to the sleigh that had drawn up next to the Impala. One of the reindeer harnessed to it was sniffing a mirror curiously. "Who the hell are you?"

"I have been called by many names," the old man smiled. "Sinterklaas, Nicholas, Pere Noel, Tomte, Kerstman, Father Christmas - but you would probably know me as Santa Claus."

Dean blinked. "Er," he said again, "Would you excuse me for a moment?"

He disappeared, and shut the door.

A moment later, he re-opened it, and sloshed a generous slurp of holy water in the visitor's face.

The old man seemed to find this amusing. "Oh, I'm not a demon, Dean," he laughed gently, "Although some of the Puritans would have cheerfully thrown me into Hell for being frivolous and subversive." He cocked his head and studied the older Winchester. "I thought you were a little young for slot cars, you know," he grinned conspiratorially, "But the post-deployment intelligence suggested that you just loved them."

"How do you know about my slot cars?" demanded Dean, a little rattled.

"The elves, boy, the elves!" laughed the self-proclaimed Father Christmas. "I make sure I get feedback on a minimum percentage of gifts deployed – Quality Assurance do that for me. To make sure I'm interpreting the wishes correctly. It's more art than science, you know," he went on seriously, "Balancing what the child wants, with what the child may have, with what is actually possible – you'll note that your request for a pet hippopotamus was never filled – with what is actually available, with the socio-economic situation of the relatives and the community..."

"This is impossible!" Dean hefted his gun, "You're not Santa Claus! You could be anything!"

"Dean, who the hell is it?" hissed Sam.

"I don't know," growled Dean, "But he'd better take his, his, his sleigh, that's loaded up with beautifully wrapped gifts, and harnessed to... eight reindeer, and get lost, or I'll gank him where he stands."

Curiosity getting the better of him, Sam put his head around the door. "Why are you dressed like Santa Claus?" he asked.

"Sam!" the old man cried happily, "How good to see you! You're on my list this year..."

"You are NOT Santa Claus!" insisted Dean.

"I am, Dean," St Nick insisted gently.

"Okay, okay, smart-ass," growled Dean, "Tell me something only Santa Claus would know!"

The old man cocked his head, and stared thoughtfully at Dean. "The year you got the slot cars," he began, "You nibbled the cookie your Mom helped you leave for me, all the way around."

"That's nothing," Dean dismissed his answer, "I'll bet all kids do that."

"You also drank the glass of brandy," smiled the old man, "And your Mom thought it was your Dad, and your Dad thought it was your Mom. You licked the glass out."

Dean's face blanched. "Um," he said.

Sam's eyes widened. "Dean?" he questioned. "You drank a glass of brandy? When you were, what, four years old?"

"I might have, you know, tasted it..." Dean told him hesitantly.

"Then once his parents were asleep, he sneaked downstairs, put two chairs one on top of the other to get to the cabinet over the refrigerator, and refilled the glass," confided the man in red conspiratorially, his kindly old face wrinkling into a cheerfully fond expression. "What a little scamp he was!"

"You did _what_?" demanded Sam. Dean's face had gone bright red.

"You loved your slot cars," the old man went on, relentlessly, "But two days before Christmas, when you were alone in your bedroom, you quietly asked me for an Impala all of your own, only you wanted yours to be red so it would go faster..."

Dean's face drained of colour.

"...And you also wanted a Barbie doll and a GI Joe, so you could take their clothes off and see if they looked different in the rudey nudey..."

One of Dean's eyes started to twitch.

"...And you wanted some lipstick, so you could be pretty, just like Mommy..."

_"Gaaaaaaah!"_ shrieked Dean, while Sam stared at him incredulously. "Oh my God, Sam," he managed in a faint voice, "It's... he's... he's Santa Claus."

"What?" Sam glared at the old man. "_What? _Crap!" he said, hefting his own gun, "There's no such thing as Santa Claus!" He looked back to his brother. "Lipstick?" he asked the man in red, "Seriously?"

The old man smiled indulgently. "One of the neighbours told your mother that he was such a beautiful child, if he'd been born a girl, she could put him into baby pageants," he confided, "And Dean wanted to be beautiful for his Mommy, and he wasn't allowed to touch her make-up, so he wanted some of his own."

Dean's face had gone back to bright red. "I hate you," he mumbled, possibly to Santa Claus, possibly to Sam, possibly to the universe in general.

"No," Sam shook his head determinedly, "No, there is no such thing. Santa Claus isn't real, it's your parents, and he's a happy story to be told to children, with folk figures from cultures around the world and through history describing a benevolent figure who gives gifts to well-behaved children."

"I do often utilise children's parents as... sub-contractors," the old man told him, "But I'm real, Sam. In your line of work, you've met stranger, more outlandish, more improbable characters than me."

"Look, Santa Claus can't be real," Sam insisted, "For a start, there's a multi-national research station in the Arctic, which is where your workshop is supposed to be, right? Somebody would've seen you!"

"I had to move when the scientists arrived," the old man waved a hand dismissively, "But it throws would-be Santa Claus trackers off the scent. I'm actually based in Greenland. Anyway, I got sick of having to chain the icebergs together. Global warming, you know."

"Sam, he has a sleigh," Dean pointed out, "With reindeer."

"Well, that's patently ridiculous," humphed Sam, "There isn't actually any snow yet! How do they pull a sleigh without any snow?" he demanded suspiciously.

"My sleigh can fly, Sam," the old man explained, "You know that. You may not know that I have a team of old men kangaroos for when I visit Australia, the six white boomers. The reindeer don't like the heat and the dust down there, this time of the year.""

"All right, then, how?" demanded Sam. "No known species of reindeer OR kangaroo can fly!"

"Of course not," Santa Claus agreed. "These are Santa Claus's reindeer and kangaroos, definitely _not_ a known species. There are things that walk this earth..."

"...Or fly over it," added Dean helpfully.

"...Or fly over it, yes, thank you Dean, that are not known to science. You know that too."

"Okay, okay," Sam changed tack, "Where's Rudolph then?"

Santa looked a little sad. "He's... under the weather," he answered forlornly, "It's not something we talk about – he had a difficult childhood. Bullied mercilessly, you know, then workplace harassment as an adult, social exclusion, horrible rumours hinting at unnatural sexual perversions. Very sad. A substance abuse problem isn't that surprising, given what he's been through. I suppose I should just be grateful that it's alcohol, and not something illegal."

Dean looked stricken. "You mean... Rudolph is a... a drunk?" he asked plaintively, clutching his bottle of 'eggnog' for reassurance.

"We prefer to use the term 'alcoholic', Dean," Santa smiled gently. "He has a disease – he tries so hard, and I try not to judge him for it. This time of the year is particularly difficult for him."

"So, that's why his nose is actually red," mused Dean, eyes swimming. "That's so sad..."

"No, no, _no_," Sam said snippily, "Reindeer can't fly, and even if they could... look, it's just not possible!" He bit his lip. "Look, let's suppose that your reindeer can actually fly, and pull your sleigh through the air. The logistics make it impossible! There's what, about 400 million eligible children on the planet, last count? Excluding Muslims, Hindus, Jews, Buddhists, Sikhs, and various other traditions that don't celebrate Christmas. Let's say there's four children average per household, across the world, and that's a conservative estimate, probably actually too high. That means, on average you have visit 100 million households, and that's assuming just one good child per household..."

"I'm sorry about him," Dean apologised, "He wasn't dropped on his head as a baby..."

"So, if you travel east to west, you've got 31 hours of night to work with, taking into account rolling time zones with the rotation of the Earth," Sam shot his brother Bitchface #9™ (I Know What I'm Doing, Jerk). "That still means you have to visit... just under 900 households per second."

Santa smiled indulgently at Sam. "I would've brought you a calculator, I think," he grinned.

That means your sleigh has to travel at... make it about 700 miles per second, which is about, what, 3,000 times the speed of sound? So, you will be subjected to a gravitational force that's about, let's see, 17,000 times the force of Earth's gravity, at least."

"This could go on for a while, I'm afraid," Dean said sheepishly, "Would you like some eggnog while we wait for him to get it out of his system? It's my own special recipe..."

"So," Sam went on with a humph, "If we assume that each child only gets a gift weighing up to two and a half pounds or so, and that's a very conservative estimate, then your sleigh has to carry two-point-five hundred million pounds. And that's not counting you." He looked Santa up and down. "And you are no lightweight."

"Two hundred and fifty at least, without the boots," the old man smiled unrepentantly. "You try eating 100 million mince pies and cookies, and drinking 100 million glasses of port and sherry and brandy, and see how svelte you stay. Just a small tot would be lovely, Dean, it is cold out, we may yet have snow."

"That sort of mass, moving at that sort of speed, will meet enormous air resistance," Sam continued determinedly, "Which would heat up the sleigh – and the reindeer, and you – like a spacecraft in re-entry." He looked the sleigh over. "I don't see any heat-resistant ceramic on that thing. You remember what happened to the space shuttle Colombia, with the damaged heat-resistant tiles? Well, you, your sleigh, the reindeer, and all those presents would be vapourised in under five seconds. After you were reduced to a squelchy smear of bloodied pulp by the excessive forces of moving that fast."

"See, this is Sam's problem," confided Dean to the patient old man, "He has a tendency to over-analyse things..."

"Which means, in conclusion," Sam glared at Dean, "That if, and it's a very big if, if Santa Claus ever DID deliver gifts on Christmas Eve, he's dead now."

"Jesus, Sam," snarked Dean, pouring a small shot of brandy into Santa's glass, "I'll bet that if I sliced you up, you'd have the word 'buzzkill' written all the way through you! No, it'd be 'grinch'! Or maybe 'Scrooge'! Why do you hate Santa Claus so much?" Dean waved his arms around. "I made sure you went to see Santa when you were little! I helped you write letters to him! I got up and ate the cookies and drank the milk you'd leave for him! I even ate the carrot you left for Rudolph! Me, Sam! _I ate a carrot! _So you could enjoy Christmas! So you could be happy to think that Rudolph had been guiding the sleigh, not sitting back home, staring into the bottom of a bottle, wallowing in self-loathing and tortured by the cruel memories of other reindeer, who used to call him nasty names, and wouldn't let him join in any reindeer games, and made up horrible things about his sexual proclivities…"

"Dean, I don't hate Santa Claus," Sam rolled his eyes, "I just don't think it's possible for him to exist…"

Dean's voice wavered, and he sniffed. "And now, he says you're on his list, he's paid you a personal visit, and, and, and, all you can do is stand there, and, and, and, debunk him!"

"You know, Dean, I think maybe you've had enough 'eggnog' for now…" Sam moved to confiscate the bottle.

"Such a precocious intellect, you were, Sam," smiled St Nick, "You asked for a Zeiss bifocal microscope, with a contrast filter, after you saw one on a school field trip to a museum. You looked at a butterfly's wing under high power, and wanted one of your own." He frowned briefly. "If I remember correctly, you also asked for a Geiger counter, because your teacher Mrs Richards smelled so funny you were sure she was radioactive, and you wanted to check…"

Sam's jaw dropped. Dean smirked in triumph.

"See?" he grinned, snatching his bottle out of Sam's reach, and waving it eloquently. "Nuh-uh, you don't get any eggnog until you say sorry to Santa for proving he doesn't exist."

"Um…" Sam's mouth opened and shut a few times. "So," he began slowly, "Why are you here, er… Santa? Mr Claus? Nicholas? How am I supposed to address you? I've never read anything on polite conventions for speaking to anthropomorphic personifications…"

"Santa will do, it does for millions of people," the old man smiled happily, and finished his brandy. "Ah! Now, as to the reason for my visit, as I was saying, you are on my list, Sam." He took a pair of glasses from his breast pocket, perched them on his button nose, and pulled a smart phone from another pocket. "Hang on… yep, definitely you. Samuel Winchester, Hunter, as described in Carver Edlund's 'Supernatural' books and stories."

"Is he on the Naughty or Nice list?" leered Dean. He suddenly sagged. "It'll be the Nice list, won't it?" he said a little sadly. "My brother doesn't know how to be really interestingly Naughty."

"Well, it's not either of those lists, as such," Santa explained, "You see, he's not on my list to receive a gift; he's on my list to be a gift."

"Huh?" chorused the Winchesters, blinking in confusion.

"Well, there's this young lady on my Nice list," Santa went on, tapping at his PDA. "Katherine Hansard, 26, currently studying law, set up a charity for underprivileged children in her home town, providing breakfasts and lunches in local schools. It's actually quite sweet, she sits down with a group of them every year, and they write letters to me. She writes one of her own. Has done every year, since she was small, and she still leaves me cookies and milk every year. She's a good person. Been good all year. Been good all her life. And this year, well, frankly, I think she's decided that she doesn't want to be completely Nice any more. She'd like to try a little bit of Naughty. And she's asked for Sam." He pulled a large red sack out of the one he had been carrying. "So, if you'll just hop in, we can be on our way."

"_WHAT?-!_" yelped Sam in disbelief. "You want to…_ give_ me to some girl as a _Christmas present?_" He bristled with outrage. "You cant give people away! People aren't things, to be owned! This country fought a war over that!"

"No, no, of course not," soothed Santa, "That's not how it works. She only gets you for a day or two, then you get shipped right back to your brother. Priority Express delivery." He pulled a label out of his sack, and, before Sam could protest, slapped it across the front of his shirt. It read:

DELIVER TO:  
><strong>DEAN WINCHESTER<br>****USA**

"No," said Sam firmly, "No, I am _not_ being given to some girl as a _Christmas present!_ This is ridiculous!"

Dean looked thoughtful. "How… Nice is Katherine?" he enquired casually.

Santa handed over his phone. It showed a picture of an attractive young lady, tall, lithe, possibly a figure skater, with a figure that could be described as 'svelte yet voluptuous' but which Dean immediately classified as 'totally hot'.

"Sam, I think you should consider this," he said in his best Big Brother Knows Best voice. "She's a nice person – hell, she's a Nice person – and she's asked for you."

Sam stared at his brother. "I can't believe you're even considering this," he breathed, astonished, "Even with that much 'eggnog' in you, I can't believe you're not trying to gank this fat guy in red pyjamas who's here to abduct your baby bro, and throw him to some slavering college girl!"

"She's not actually slavering, Sam," Santa pointed out, "She's a little bit shy, but curious, and very sweet. She'd like her first time to be with someone she thinks of as… special. That's why she asked for you."

Dean's eyes were like saucers. "You mean, she's a… oh my God, she's a virgin, and she's asked for Sam?" He turned to his brother. "Sam! You totally have to do this!"

"No I don't!" his brother responded.

"Yes, you do!" Dean insisted. "She's 26 years old, and she's a virgin! She's 26, she's totally hot, and that's a, a, a, it's a frigging tragedy! A totally hot, willing virgin, who's asked for you! You need to get laid, Sam, and so does she! You have to save her, Sammy, save her from virginity! It's a fate worse than death!" He fixed his little brother with an authoritative stare. "Now, you need to _have_ the sack, to get _in_ that sack, then, then, then, go get _her _in the sack!"

"Dean!..."

"Or on a sofa, or on a chair, or on the stairs, or in a car, or in a spa bath, or in a park, or in the kitchen, or up a tree, you know, wherever the mood takes you both at the time, because it's not the location, it's the penetration…"

"DEAN!" Sam threw a double-strength Bitchface #3™ (I Wish You'd Let Your Upstairs Brain Drive More Often).at his brother, and crossed his arms with an industrial-strength humph. "Get this into your heads, both of you," he growled, "I am NOT going ANYWHERE in a flying sleigh, at the behest of someone who CANNOT EXIST and my brother who has drunk too much eggnog that is COMPLETELY EGG-FREE for the purposes of being given to a student somewhere AS A CHRISTMAS GIFT for some sort of yuletide defloration ritual!"

Santa sighed. "Oh, well," he said in a good-naturedly resigned tone, "She'll just have to have some seashell chocolates instead. Ah, now while I'm here…" he tapped at the smart phone once more, "Dean, you are also on my Wish List."

"I am?" queried Dean. "Well, I mean, of course I am! Why wouldn't I be? I am, after all, the Living Sex God." He peered suspiciously at Santa. "Why have I never been on your Wish List before?" he demanded a little querulously. "Surely somebody has asked for the Living Sex God for Christmas before now?"

"Oh, they have, they have," grinned Santa, "But remember what I told you – it has to be a wish made to Santa Claus, it has to be feasible, it has to be plausible, you have to agree to it, and of course, the would-be recipient has to be adequately Nice." He scanned his list. "It just so happens that this year, they are Nice enough."

"Well, that's… hang on, did you say 'they'?" Dean did a double take.

"Yes, I did," confirmed Santa, checking the details. "The Edmunssen twins. Alex and Mikki. It's just adorable, really – they're 28 now, and have been writing me letter since they were in school. They claim they choose to believe in Santa Claus, and they do everything together. They're big fans of the 'Supernatural' stories, and this year, they've decided they want Dean for Christmas."

"Absolutely not," said Sam firmly.

"Hey, hey, let's not be too hasty here, Sam," Dean forestalled him. "So, just how 'Nice' have the Edmunssen twins been this year?"

"It's a case of being Nice forever, really," Santa told him. "Like Katherine. Migrated to the US from Sweden with their parents when they were ten years old – they still have traces of the accent – one is a teacher, a retired gymnast who coaches children in underprivileged areas when not teaching yoga to their parents, and the other is a massage therapist who runs a charitable meals delivery service to pensioners. Other than that, they're inseparable. They do everything together."

"Everything?" asked Dean with a waggle of his eyebrows.

"Everything," confirmed Santa. "Apparently this year, they've decided they'd like to do you together. Or, more correctly, they'd like you to do them, together, since they are both, like Katherine, a little shy, and inexperienced. If you're willing, of course, that's essential. You have to be happy to do this. I'm sure you'd be patient and gentle with them, though, by all accounts you are a complete gentlemen in the, er, boudoir…"

Dean's smile was so wide, Sam worried that his head was going to crack open. "Absolutely," he nodded vigorously, "So, what are we waiting for?" he asked. "Gimme that sack."

"Dean, I don't think this is a good idea," Sam began, as Dean began climbing into the big red bag.

"Are you kidding me? The Edmunssen twins need me, Sam!"

"No, Dean, seriously, I think perhaps we should…"

"Get into the Christmis spirit, Sam!" chirped Dean happily, "That's what we should do! Get into the spirit of the yuletide season! Peace and love, especially love, towards one's fellow human beings. And a couple of them need me to love them, up close and personal. With great talent and power comes great responsibility, Sam – the Living Sex God will never neglect his obligations. I'll be back in a couple of days, so, don't wait up! Look after my car! Let's go, Big Red Suited Dude, the twins are waiting!"

"I promise he'll be back in a day or two," Santa reassured Sam, as Dean beamed happily, and started hopping towards the sleigh like he was in a sack race.

Sam sighed, and closed the door. It was just like Dean to take of on some wild hare-brained trip to get laid. He just hoped that he was wrong about the whole physics thing, and his big brother made it back without burning up on re-entry…

"Oh, no, did I just think the phrase 'burning up on re-entry'? about Dean and… oh, fuck," Sam collapsed into a chair, and let his head bang onto the table. Dean had left his bottle of 'eggnog' behind. Sam pulled it towards himself, and picked up a glass.

Then he put the glass down and necked the bottle.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **...oooooOOOOOooooo...****

True to his word, Santa had Dean shipped back to Sam on Christmas Night.

There was a knock at the door. Sam recognised Dean's knock.

"About time," he griped, opening the door, "So, I hope you enjoyed debauching yourself, you disgusting creature…"

Dean shuffled into their room, his hair wildly tousled, his shirt gone, his jeans torn, and a phone number written in eyeliner disappearing into the waistband of said jeans. He looking exhausted, tousled, ruffled, and, in fact, slightly shell-shocked. He had the requisite shipping address sticker plastered across his chest, and, below that, taped to the label, was a small note. Sam saw that it was addressed to him, so he pulled the piece of purple paper off his brother, and read it.

_Dear Sam,_

_Thank you so much for letting Santa give us Dean for Christmas. We were both so absolutely thrilled, we cannot describe it!_

_It was very generous of you to let us have him at this time of the year. We will be forever grateful, and invite you both to drop in and visit us any time you are passing through._

_Have a Merry Christmas, and a safe and happy New Year._

_Lots of love,_

_Alexander and Markus Edmunssen._

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><p>Reviews are the Gift-wrapped Winchester under the Christmas Tree Of Life!<p> 


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